Testimony of Two Men

by Taylor Caldwell

  Why would anyone want a curette, and who had taken it? It was a sharp and chancy instrument, and had to be used with the utmost care or a womb could be perforated when the products of a spontaneous abortion or a miscarriage had to be removed. Special training was needed for the use of a curette. Only in cases with threatened sepsis did a man use it, or if there was danger of a hemorrhage.

  Jonathan minutely examined the depression where the curette had lain and saw that it was faintly peppered with dust. So, the instrument had been gone a considerable time, and not lately. He went out to Miss Forster and said, "Has anyone unauthorized been in my offices when I wasn't present, or Dr. Morgan absent?"

  "Why, no, I'd never permit that, Doctor! I believe I know my duties! Of course, there was that veiled lady who claimed to be a friend—"

  "No, no, dear. I should think several months ago, at least."

  "Never!" said Miss Forster, with emphasis. "Why, is something missing, Doctor? After all, there are prowlers—"

  "Who had my key, of course, and took only one instrument, and then carefully relocked my cabinet and restored my key."

  Miss Forster seemed ready to cry, so Jonathan patted her shoulder, told her it was probably a mistake, his mistake, and went out for his horse and his ride to his farm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A gray heat haze hung over the cities of the valley. No rain had fallen for nearly three weeks and the river was low and tributary streams were dry in their beds, with boulders roundly blazing in the sun. Lawns browned in town, but on the mountainsides, where springs and deep brooks still spurted, the grass was green and flowers burned. There was a tense and breathless expectancy in the absolutely immobile air, as if before a conflagration, but in spite of the constant prophesies of rain and thunder, nothing stirred and trees prematurely dried and filled gutters with crisp brown heaps. A sick languor overcame nearly everyone, and children, afflicted with what mothers called "second-summer complaint," became ill and an unprecedented number of them died.

  "We tell them, over and over," said Robert with exhaustion, to Jonathan Ferrier, "to boil the milk and the water they feed their infants, to keep all butter and perishable food on ice, and they smile at us knowingly and talk of 'summer cholera' or 'summer complaint,' even while their children sicken and die or dehydrate themselves with vomiting and diarrhea. We still have diarrhea as the chief cause of death among young children, and even older ones, but we can't make people take precautions."

  "Just as Lister and Pasteur and Semmelweis struggled against public apathy and stupidity for too long," said Jonathan. "I've been advocating for years that tubercular cattle be destroyed, and I am called 'the enemy of the poor farmer,' wishing to deprive him of his precious herds just for a 'fad.' I've tried to get the Board of Health to prohibit the sale of all milk that isn't pasteurized and to demand universal pasteurization, and I'm just a 'new-fangled faddist.' I've even been reprimanded by that congregation of imbeciles, the State Medical Society, which tried to revoke my license less than a year ago. If there is one rule this idiot world insists upon it is 'Never disturb people.' Never cause them concern; never bring political mountebankery or malfeasance to their attention; never kick a popular hero in his buttocks; never ask them to do something for the good of their community; never demand that they practice some sort of hygiene; never hint that their country needs a long hard look, especially at Washington. Never preach disaster. Never tell the truth. That's the way to a serene life."

  "Well, St. Paul did say, 'Never kick against the pricks,'" said Robert, wiping a round face unusually pale with heat and fatigue. "The pricks are always public opinion, public will."

  "Hah," said Jonathan. "In modern words, you mean 'You can't fight City Hall.' Well, I've been fighting City Hall most of my life and it is practically the only pleasure I have, outside of a lady or two. You may not be able to defeat City Hall, but it rouses up your blood, and once in a while you can get in an uppercut. How many kids, in our practice, have died this week?"

  "Eight."

  "And all we can give them is paregoric, and give their mothers advice. The children's hospital wards are full, but even in the hospital they don't boil the milk and water. One of these days we are going to have a fine epidemic of typhoid unless something is done to purify the water at the source or people boil it. It's a strange thing. We doctors sweat our lives out trying to educate people into staying alive, and invariably they smirk and kill themselves. With the help of the Doctor Boguses. Do you recall that in 1873 Sir John Erichsen, the 'eminent' physician and surgeon, said, 'There cannot always be fresh fields of conquest by the knife; there must be portions of the human frame that will ever remain sacred from its intrusions, at least in the surgeon's hands. That we have already, if not quite, reached these final limits, there can be little question. The abdomen, the chest, and the brain will be forever shut from the intrusion of the wise and humane surgeon.'

  "Yet the old boys, thousands of years ago, did so 'intrude,' and many of their patients lived. Now we are 'intruding',' too. Cheer up. In spite of stupidity, we do advance a little. We now have spinal anesthesia, thanks to James Leonard Corning of New York, in 1885, and we are tentatively giving some thought to Mendelian laws, and one of these days, perhaps soon, we'll be able to give blood transfusions safely. Yes, we do advance. And we do have State Health Departments now, so we can look forward to some end to the general carnage of ignorance. But you can be sure that new stupidities will jump up like toadstools as the old ones are destroyed. The human race never learns."

  "You're no Utopian, I see."

  "Of course not. No sane man ever was or is. That presupposes a change in human nature, but it hasn't changed one iota in recorded history. Besides, it would be damned boring. Imagine a world where everyone is 'happy'! Happiness never created a great picture, a great book, a great idea, a great statue, a great symphony. It never invented anything. It is just mental constipation. But unhappiness, the 'divine discontent,' releases human energy and creativeness—though I must admit it releases the swine of Gadarene, too. If it reveals the face of God, it also shows the Devil in full color. Still, I prefer activity to 'happiness.' Do you remember what Emerson said, 'Every reform is only a mask under cover of which a more terrible reform, which dares not yet name itself, approaches.' True. But I'm all for liveliness, good or bad."

  "Iconoclast," said Robert, sighing, and rang for the next patient.

  "Well, to follow Emerson's thought, one of these days the old idols will fall, and maybe we'll get a few frightful Mol-ochs in their place."

  The island, in the quiet and sinking river, was cooler than the mainland, for what breeze stirred did ruffle the trees and enter the open windows. But the water had a brazen look, molten and still, and seemed to exude heat by itself, though the sky was far and pale blue and burning. The springs that fed the earth kept the grass green and the trees in glistening leaf and the gardens flourishing, but every stone was hot and the little castle seemed to palpitate as if afire inside. Dust ran in little twirls along the paths, and there was a fetid smell from the various ponds. The boats lay on barely wet stones and had to be pushed far out into the water before they floated.

  Jenny sat in the library reading, with the shutters half closed. The large long room, in its duskiness, gave the illusion of coolness, but her flesh stuck to the leather upholstery and her face was damp. She wore a thin brown skirt of linen and a severe shirtwaist, open at the throat, and she had pinned her hair high on her head for coolness and it rose in a largely untidy black mound over her pale face. Harald never came into this room, and so to her it was a sort of sanctuary, just as she had small hidden grottoes on the island where she often sat, and about which Harald did not know, he not having much curiosity about the island.

  The library door opened, and to Jenny's consternation and anger Harald entered, his handsome face reserved, though he smiled affably enough when his eyes met Jenny's vexed ones. He held a sheaf of paper in his hand. When Jenny jumped u
p to leave, he said, "Please give me a moment. This is very important—to you, Jenny. To you. They are outlines for legal papers."

  "Consult my lawyers," said Jenny, closing her notebooks and preparing to leave.

  "I already have. And these papers are the result. For God's sake, Jenny, this is most important for you."

  "Nothing you have to say—" said Jenny, but she did not run out. She watched him darkly as he continued to advance into the room.

  "It isn't what I 'say,' Jenny, it is what your lawyers and mine say." He sat down near a table. "Sit down. Please." His hazel eyes studied her gravely, and they shone with seriousness, and Jenny was reluctantly impressed in spite of herself. She sat down stiffly on the edge of her chair and tightly folded her hands on her knee. She stared rigidly at a point on his broad white forehead, and waited, filled with revulsion and hatred.

  Harald picked up the papers and studied them, and did not look at her. "Jenny, you know I don't like this island. I detest that part of your mother's will which states that I must spend at least seven consecutive months here, or I lose the very nice income from her large estate, which is held in trust for you and which will be yours when I die. My income is thirty thousand dollars a year, sometimes considerably more, depending on the dividends of the investments. That isn't a sum one gives up lightly."

  "You intend to give it up?" Jenny was astounded. "You mean, you will leave the island—forever?"

  "That is entirely up to you, Jenny."

  She could not believe it. The tense lines of her young face relaxed in wonder and tremulous hope. Seeing that, Harald was filled with genuine and very deep, pain and sadness. He looked at the papers intently and rattled them.

  "You see, Jenny," he said, and his voice was very gentle, "I am establishing myself as quite a famous artist. That doesn't interest you, I know. But I did excellently in Philadelphia. I have five fine orders. I can sell all I produce. But I don't want to stay here, for the place stifles me. I know that hurts you, but it does. When your mother was alive, we weren't here a great deal of the time. We traveled. We were free. We had some happy times—"

  Jenny made a curious sound, and Harald looked up and saw the dense bitterness on the girl's face and the sudden aliveness of emotion.

  "Yes, we did, Jenny. Your mother and I were very happy together, though you choose not to believe it. It was an arrangement—it satisfied us both. An arrangement. I was very fond of your mother. What did you say?" he asked, as again she made that smothered sound.

  "Never mind, Harald. I'm not interested in your 'happy times' with my mother. Go on with your important business. You said you wished to leave."

  "Yes." The sadness was like an old sickness in him, and the longing for her was the greatest hunger he had ever known. "Now, if I leave, I forfeit all the income from the estate. I'm prepared to do that under one condition. I have made a contract here—a contract with you. It is true that you are still a minor, but the lawyers will act in your behalf, if you are willing and give your consent." (He knew this was not true.)

  "When I permanently leave, you will immediately come into the millions left in trust by your mother. I will make it short. If you, when you come into that money, will give me only three hundred thousand dollars of it, I will sign away my right to the lifetime income from the estate. A lump sum of three hundred thousand dollars. I will then leave you to both the money and the island. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." She was more astounded than ever and now began to tremble with her hope and rising joy.

  Is it hopeless? he thought. Jenny, Jenny, Jenny! He said, "Do you want to read these two contracts, yours and mine, now?"

  "Please." She extended her hand for them, and he reached toward her and gave them to her. Her hands shook, but she read clearly and steadily. "I, Jenny Louise Heger, hereby contract to deliver to Harald Farmington Ferrier the sum of three hundred thousand dollars, from the estate of my late mother, Myrtle Schiller Heger Ferrier, which will revert to me, when the said Harald Farmington Ferrier gives up all his rights to the income of the estate and departs from the residence on the island called Heart's Ease and never returns. He is to leave me in full possession of the residence and the estate, with no later demands and upon his recorded oath that he has relinquished all rights to said residence and estate forevermore, of his own free will and desire."

  There was considerably more, and Jenny's rapid eye went over it quickly, suspicious of any fraud. Then she read Harald's contract. "In consideration of the sum of ($300,000) three hundred thousand dollars from the estate of my late wife, Myrtle Schiller Heger Ferrier, I hereby relinquish all rights to said estate and the residence called Heart's Ease, and will leave said estate and residence and never return—"

  Jenny let out a long and audible breath. Her intensely blue eyes shone like cobalt. She almost smiled at Harald.

  "Tomorrow," he said, "you and I will have to go to the lawyers and sign these contracts before witnesses. Are you willing?"

  "Yes. Yes!" She spoke with fervor.

  He held out his hand for the papers and she gave them to him. Then he sat in silence and looked at her, and her face was soft and young and sternly sweet, and she seemed to be in an ecstatic dream. He watched her for a considerable time. Of what was she thinking, this quiet and enigmatic girl, so young and naive and unworldly, which made her face shine so brilliantly, and her parted lips acquire a deep rose?

  "You will understand that this is a big sacrifice I am making, Jenny?" he said at last. She started. Her eyes stared at him for a moment without recognition.

  "Sacrifice?"

  "Yes. That money is scarcely ten years' income for me, from your mother's estate. I will be only forty-three—if I choose to spend thirty thousand a year, as I have been doing —when the money is gone. Do you appreciate that sacrifice, Jenny? I am in good health, and could live into my seventies on this island, and my income would come to me steadily, and would probably increase. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, at the very least. Yet, I am wiling to give it up—to please you."

  "I—I thought you said this place stifles you—"

  He smiled, and his hazel eyes regarded her kindly. "So it does. But still, I have five free months to go where I will— and receive the income and security. A man can endure a lot for thirty thousand dollars a year for life!"

  She was confused, and frowned at him, trying to understand.

  "You've made it painful for me to stay here, Jenny."

  "Painful?" Now she colored unbecomingly.

  "Yes. Still, one can stand a lot of pain for thirty thousand dollars' a year for life. What is ten years' income—and freedom—compared with that?"

  "Then—then, why are you doing it?"

  He laid the papers on a table and looked at them, and his profile was somber and she had never seen him like that before, and for the first time his handsomeness did not offend her and she was not revolted by his mass of curling ruddy hair. But still she trembled with eagerness never to see him again, never to hear his voice or his footsteps.

  He began to speak slowly, still looking at the papers as if reading from them. "Jenny, I've said you've made it painful for me to live here. You've been ugly and unpleasant and— and almost savage—toward me since your mother died. Before that, you were friendly and even laughed with me. Perhaps you were embittered by her will. In a way, I don't . blame you. I should have felt the same under the same circumstances. It was an affront to an only child, an only daughter, and your mother loved you dearly, Jenny. I never did understand that will. I wanted Myrtle to change it—"

  "I know!" Now her face became dark and furious and pent. "I know you overheard her telling me, in the hall, that she knew she had done me an injustice and that she was going to change her will! That was only two days before she died!"

  He showed no surprise, for he had heard that revelation from his mother months ago. "Yes, that is quite true, Jenny. And I was glad."

  "Glad!" She jumped to her feet, bent toward him stiffly in h
ard and violent rage, and spoke through clenched teeth. "You were so glad that you and your brother plotted together to kill my mother before she could change her will! I heard you both! And he did, he did! That murderer!"

  He turned absolutely white. He stood up, very slowly, and confronted her. He tried to speak, wet his lips, then tried again. His voice was queer to his own ringing ears when he said, "Are you mad, entirely mad? Have you gone out of your mind?" His eyes dilated and became fixed, like amber.

  She made a disordered and fierce gesture.

  "Do you think I cared about that money? Do you think it was important to me? Do you think I was outraged at my mother's will? It was her money, her money! She could do with it as she wished, as far as I was concerned! It meant nothing to me, nothing at all. But her—her—life—it meant everything to me, and she was killed to prevent her changing her will, and you can lie and lie—what a liar you always were!—and nothing will ever change the truth!"

  He looked involuntarily at the shut door, and his pale face was sick and changed. "Jenny, lower your voice. How can you think that of me, and Jon?" He was trembling himself now. "So, that was what has been wrong since your mother died. Jenny, Jenny, you are insane. Believe me, I am convinced you are insane."

  "Insane!" She threw back her head so far and with such fury that the muscles in her neck stood out like white ropes. She laughed, and it was a short and awful sound. "That's all you can say, in your guilt—and you know you are guilty! You and your brother, the doctor!"

  He caught one of her stiff arms and held her and when she tried to pull away from him, he held her tighter. "Listen to me, you fool," he said in a low voice. "Listen to me instead of your crazy imaginings. Your mother died of a heart attack. She knew she was dying for months, but she didn't want you and me to know, and made my brother pledge his silence. But after she was dead, he told me. She was a brave woman. She preferred not to make us unhappy before it was time. A brave woman. She knew she could die any moment, but she said nothing to us. I won't have your insanity hurt her now, Jenny, I won't have it!"